Author: Thuvia Ptarth
Summary: Shedding your skin always hurts. Missing scene for "Skin."
Warnings: Child abuse, sexual violence, incest in the eye of the beholder.
Title, Author and URL of original story: I scratched a heart around your name by wanttobeatree
Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead. I smack your cheek and the back of your head thunks against the girder with a dull, meaty sound. You glare, I laugh: Pavlovian reaction. Yeah, I said "Pavlov." You think you're the only one knows big words? "Aw, Sammy. You can quit pretending you're asleep. You haven't been able to fake me out since you were five."
You breathe heavy. You must have bitten your lip when you hit your head, because it's swelling up, ripe and red, the color of raw beef. "You're not my brother," you say.
"No?" I lean in close, press the point of Dean's favorite knife against the sweet spot below your eye, hard against the bone that rides up so close beneath the baby-fat and taut young skin.
"You're not my brother," you say again, unwavering, and I gotta hand it to your dad, crazy mean sonofabitch sure raised you right. Not that it's going to save you. Not that it's going to save big brother, who maybe didn't come out quite so right. You'd blink more, you knew the kinds of things he has in his head.
"You don't know anything about my brother," you say. That's you, stubborn as a pig.
"I know your brother real well." I lick your blood off my favorite knife. "About as well as I know you."
Yeah, sneer at me like your shit don't stink. You stink the same inside, everyone does. Inside you're nothing but blood and slime and shit. I keep looking for something sweeter, but it's never there. We all look like raw meat when our skin's peeled off. I should know, right? Seriously, all I'm trying to do is find a little warmth. Find a little connection. Peel off their skins like I peel off mine. It's not my fault they're made wrong. They just need to try harder. Shedding your skin always hurts.
They could try wearing mine. They could try a little harder. Fucking lazy cunts. I've tried wearing theirs, you know. It's not like I want to hurt them. It's just that they won't shut up. Not like you. You're a real quiet type. You keep secrets real well. We've got that in common. We've got a lot in common, you and your brother and me.
I and he and you and me. We're the same, you know. You do know it. You know it from the look in their eyes. Freak, they say, you freak, you weirdo, you freak. They could always tell, every new town we went to, no matter how tough you look, no matter how sweet you smile. The girls who laugh at you, the boys who kick you in the ribs, they can always tell. It's like the skin doesn't seal it in, what we are.
Hey! Watch your mouth. That's no way to talk to your big brother.
Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that.
I know you, Sammy-boy. I know how old you were the first time you broke a bone, I know how old you were the first time you got a boner, I know the name of the girl who gave you your first kiss, I've got a good idea who gave you your first blow job, and I know how old you were the last time you wet the bed--and thank you for cleaning the sheets, Dean, by the way, thanks for not smacking me silly, no problem, Sam, anything for you. Anytime. Yeah, you know that. You selfish bastard. You fucking depend on it. Fucking depend on me shoving the two of you apart, me backing you up and look what it got me: thanks for the help, boy, keep Sammy out of trouble, don't tell Dad, bust your balls doing everybody favors and get dumped like a one-night stand. Man, your brother sure didn't do much with all he had, did he? Too busy looking after your sorry ass. Oh, yeah, I know what you are, Joe College, Mr. Sam Selfish Prick Winchester. Mr. Sam So Fucking Pure Winchester.
Like you're so fucking pure. Like I don't know exactly what you want. You're just a freak like the rest of us. Why's it so freakish? No, tell me, I want to know. It's just what everybody wants. I've always known. Couldn't have been more than six when that guy put his hands on me, that old guy with his sickly sweet alcohol smell and his fucking ugly hands, his fucking ugly red hands with hair on the knuckles, his fucking sickly alcohol smell, his fucking ugly hands over my mouth, his fucking ugly hands where they shouldn't be. That old guy. Or another guy, the guy with the bloodshot eyes and the sunburn, unzipping his jeans, soft ugly belly with a scrawl of black hair. Or Daddy Dearest. Or Stepdaddy Dearest. Whoever the fuck, like it makes a difference. Shut up and do what I say. Shut up and open your mouth. Spread your legs. Push up your ass. Don't tell or I'll hurt you. Don't tell or I'll hurt your brother. Don't tell or I'll kill your dad.
Crazy that they all threaten like that, huh? "Don't tell," like you need to tell. Everybody knows. Everybody knows, nobody says.
Like you, Sammy. Looking at me with those puppy-dog eyes and never saying. Like you're a good boy as long as you don't say it. You think you're better than me because you never say it? You think you're not a freak like me as long as you don't reach?
You and your puppy eyes. Like you never wanted to beat me to a fucking pulp, like you never wanted to fuck me to a beaten pulp.
Snarl all you want. You keep forgetting I know you.
I crouch over you, pressing my knee to your thigh, practically sitting on your lap. You're trying to hide it, but I've known you too long, too well. That bird-quick breath, those flushed cheeks, those dilated eyes: you just keep trying to tell yourself that's rage. You smell so sweet, human scents overwhelming the sewer reek: cheap shampoo, mild soap, rank man-sweat. New sweat trickling down the nape of your neck, wetting my palm.
I've got a present for you. Open your mouth.